But We Can't Stop
by Countryole
Summary: "And that's what hurts the most, that's what twists the knife even deeper; the idea that after everything, after all this time, there's a part of him that still doesn't trust her." In which Jane learns about driving, forgiveness, and other things. Rated M for adult content.


**_But We Can't Stop_**

 ** _AN:_** _So this was initially intended to be a continuation of "Drive", in which Jane gets into various shenanigans while trying to get her drivers license. It sort of spiraled out of control, and turning into something totally different. This is set a yearish in the future, but without any reference to Oscar or the fact that Jane might know she's the one responsible for what's happened to her. One last AU of sorts before the show comes back in almost a week!_

 _I'm apologizing now, if this is completley off the rails, I feel like it's been AGES since I've written something substantial and this might have been more than I bargained for... Oh well. I apologize for any glaring errors, I've been staring at this thing for almost two weeks. x)_

* * *

Jane Doe is an enigma. She's a probable former Navy SEAL with a penchant for Chinese takeout and bourbon. She's a master linguist, proficient in practically every weapon known to man, and the ones they don't know about too. She's capable of piloting helicopters, and doesn't think twice about engaging in hand to hand combat with opponents twice her size. Yet despite all this, there's still one thing that remains absent from the impressive list of skills that precedes the rest of the encyclopedia that is her FBI file.

She can't drive.

Now that statement isn't to be confused with high speed pursuits that consist of breaking speed limits, driving against oncoming traffic, weaving in and out of traffic, and rounding corners on two wheels like she was born to star in a Fast And Furious movie. But traffic signals, or—you know— _the law_? She can't follow them to save her life. Or anyone else's apparently. Reade, judging by the way he's currently clutching his armrests in the passenger seat and sweating through his button down, isn't liking the odds of his survival rate at this point.

"Jane, I really don't want to die today. Jane you have to _stop_. Jane, that light is _red_ , it's _red_!"

 _Ye of so little faith,_ she thinks, not that she blames him.

If there were a picture of led foot in the dictionary, she's pretty sure it would be hers, because every time she hits the break her spine compacts and contorts and the seatbelt all but squeezes the life out of her. She makes a mental note to apologize to Kurt, because she's fairly certain his bad back has only gotten worse the handful of times he suffered through driving with her. Though, in her defense, his pain is mostly self inflicted, and it isn't _all_ from the driving…

"Sorry, Reade." Jane winces as they come to a halt at the light.

"We have less than a mile to the parking garage," Reade runs a hand over his face with a sigh, "don't be sorry, just get us there alive, ok?"

Jane just nods, and grips the steering wheel a little tighter, trying to ignore the heat in her face. Never in her life, or at least _this_ life, has she struggled as much to master as skill as she has this one.

They're in the middle of Manhattan, headed back to the Hoover building after an afternoon driving up and down West Street, but as many times as she's been forced to navigate the city she still hates it. There's too many people, too many cars, and they're always, _always_ in a hurry. It feels like a death trap at worst, and claustrophobic at best. After all this time, she still prefers the subway, but Kurt insisted if the Bureau was going to instate her as an official agent, she had to have a drivers license, and to have a drivers license the state of New York required so many logged hours.

After one too many failed attempts at teaching her himself, and one too many heated arguments in the locker room, Kurt made the executive decision to appoint Reade as her driving instructor for the remainder of her required hours. And by executive decision, he stormed into the squad room and threw the keys onto Reade's desk and didn't really give him a choice in the matter.

"You listen about as well as Kurt does," Reade mutters while they sit, shaking his head, "and when I say listen, I mean you _don't_. But you know what? It all makes sense now. No wonder you two are the only ones who can put up with each other."

Jane casts him a steely sideways glance, and she scowls. She scowls _a lot_ when she drives, and by a lot she means all the time. In fact at this point she's surprised her face hasn't become permanently stuck in that position. If she weren't holding onto the steering wheel so tightly she would have reached over the console and punched Reade in the shoulder, but she resists the urge in favor of keeping both hands firmly in place. He's grinning, anyways, and they both know he doesn't _really_ mean it. At least not maliciously.

Jane takes a breath, watches the passing traffic and counts the seconds. Oddly enough Reade is somehow easier to put up with than Kurt had been. Over the past year Jane's realized that once you get past Reade's very fortified, nearly impossible to infiltrate exterior, that he's as loyal as they come. He's become one of Jane's main confidants, as much as Tasha or Patterson have ever been, and looking back on how wary he'd been of her before, she's thankful for his friendship now.

Read doesn't give away his trust lightly—you earn it, you deserve it—and she respects him for that. When Jane first appeared in Time square, bringing all her tattoos and mysteries and chaos with her, he'd been the most leery of her, and he had been the most adamant that Kurt keep his distance. It's ironic how now, a year later, so much has changed. If there's anyones trust she's most proud to have finally won, it's his. She's glad to know when she needs him, when she needs it to count the most, Edgar Reade has her back.

But there's something else too, a more simple understanding between the both of them that's brought them closer. The very same reason that, in the beginning, had Reade convinced she was nothing but trouble waiting to happen (though arguable, she still is).

That reason is Kurt Weller.

 _He's happier because of you. He smiles more because of you._ Those are the things Tasha and Patterson have told her over drinks when Kurt's not around, those are the things that Reade has silently nodded along in agreement to. They've all witnessed the change in Kurt, and they've all drawn the same conclusion, that ever since Jane showed up he's been different.

"Lights green, Jane," Reade taps the console between them, and she jumps, the sound of honking horns behind them forcibly pulling her out of her thoughts.

"I'm going, I'm going."

Couldn't she just fly a helicopter to and from work? Surely flying hours constitute for double the amount of driving hours just because of the sheer difficulty level? The Hoover building has a helicopter pad, it's not like it would be entirely outside the realm of feasibility…

They make it back to the parking garage without incident. She even manages to park the SUV between the lines on the first try, and all without any comments from the perpetual peanut gallery that is Reade. In comparison to Kurt, Reade's level of patience is saint like, but even so the usually stoic and easy going FBI agent has threatened at least a handful of times to hand her off to Tasha. And they both know that the driving lessons would quickly turn into interrogations and opportunities for blackmail instead if that were to happen.

"Are we still doing drinks with the team tonight?" Reade asks during their elevator ride back to the squad room, his instructor hat off and forgotten now that he has two feet on solid ground again. She remembers one time, clearly, when they returned from driving a few weeks ago, that he dropped to the ground and kissed the parking garage floor, which is saying a lot since he's always complaining about how dirty it is. Jane's even pretty sure that day he'd been wearing his favorite vest.

It's Friday night and drinks at the bar a few blocks down the street have become their regular haunt. He asks her the question while he's looking at his phone, and Jane narrows her eyes, leaning over to try and catch a glimpse of the screen to see what, or _who_ , his attention might be focused on. In the small space there's no where for Reade to run, and she's currently got him trapped between her and the far wall.

"I think so, why? You got plans?" Jane teases when Reade snatches his phone away and shoves it back in his pocket with a scowl.

"Watch it, Doe, I could still fail you." Reade holds up the SUV key fob like a threat, but when Jane simply laughs in response, he considers her for a moment with a flash of panic. " _Wait,_ is Zapata putting you up to this? Because if she is I swear to God—"

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Jane cuts him off, returning to her side of the elevator with a grin and gleaming green eyes that could only be described as conspicuous.

* * *

Before Reade can ask her anything else the elevator arrives at their destination, and Jane slides out the doors before they're completely open, escaping into the squad room with a quick "see you later" thrown over her shoulder for good measure. After a less than stellar afternoon behind the wheel, it feels good to smile, even if it's a shit eating grin at her friend's expense. But Reade, also being constantly paranoid, in addition to his endless sense of humor, has always been an easy target for those kinds of things, as Tash would say.

Speaking of Tash, Jane scans the room looking for the other woman, but her desk is empty. It's possible her and Patterson have already left for the evening to go claim their tables before the Friday night rush. Jane heads to her own desk to collect her backpack, semi organizing the folders she left scattered there before turning off the overhead light. She fishes her own phone out of her jacket pocket, forgetting she'd left it on silent while she and Reade were driving. There's a handful of missed texts from Patterson; pictures of her and Tash already at the bar.

There's one missed call from Kurt, but no voicemail. He's been doing performance reviews with Mayfair for the Bureau all week, stuck somewhere in the vast labyrinth of the building in front of the bosses of his boss, forced to wear a suit and tie while talking about numbers and projections and his agents—his own personal hell. Jane doesn't really mind if he suffers a little though, because she likes it when he wears suits. However, if she's completely honest with herself, she also likes it when he takes them off.

"So did you run anyone over today?"

She can't help the involuntary smile that hits her, the flip of her stomach; all it takes is the sound of Kurt Weller's voice.

They've been dating for almost a year now, and living together for six months. Sometimes she has to pinch herself, just to make sure it is in fact real, and not another one of her all too lucid dreams.

Jane turns around to find Kurt standing there, arms crossed, tie loosened around his neck as he observes her. He steps closer and she sits against the edge of her desk, closing the distance between them, and in an uncharacteristically bold move for the workplace, he gets close enough so that his legs brush hers. Jane tilts her head to the side, imaging how easy it would be to wrap her arms around his neck, but she refrains. Despite the majority of the building being aware of their relationship status, they'd agreed that remaining professional in the office and keeping affectionate physical gestures to the minimum was best. Regardless, right now, she contemplates how out of line it would be if she were to lean forward and kiss him.

"You'll have to ask Reade," Jane shrugs, eyes bright, "I'm sure he'd have plenty to tell you."

"No thanks," Kurt shakes his head, "my imagination and past experiences paint a pretty good pictures by themselves, I think. Just as long as you weren't making any moves on him…"

Jane makes a half-hearted attempt to punch him in the chest, but he catches her fist in his hand.

"Jealous?" Jane raises an eyebrow.

"I don't share well with others." Kurt admits with a shrug, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I've noticed," Jane stands up, forcing him to move back a little as she shoulders her backpack, invading his space simply for her own personal enjoyment. "Are you ready to go?" The grin finally breaks across the rest of his face, turning into a full fledged smile that reaches his eyes, accompanied by a soft laugh.

"Never been more ready," Kurt murmurs, rolling his neck and running a hand over his face. He looks tired, the circles under his eyes more pronounced than usual, and Jane almost stops and suggests they just go home for the night, but before she can Kurt grabs her hand. He traces the honeycomb pattern there with his thumb with a sigh. "Do you know how much I hate being in charge sometimes?"

"You might have mentioned it before." Jane muses aloud, working her fingers through his, squeezing his hand reassuringly, "but I've also know how much you love it."

"I wasn't cut cut out for the political part of being the boss," Kurt tilts his head, considering Jane for moment, "these reviews we do are dog and pony shows, they're supposed to keep the talking heads happy, but when I say things they don't want to hear…" Even though she knows better than to ask him about what it is exactly that's bothering him—because she already knows he won't be able to say anything because of clearance restrictions—she still wants to.

"You do a good job Kurt," Jane replies more seriously, "you shouldn't be so hard on yourself."

"I'm glad you think so."

"We _all_ think so."

He's quiet for a moment, and Jane thinks he's about to say something else, that maybe he's about to tell her what it is that's bugging him, but he doesn't get a chance before Reade is calling to them from across the room.

"C'mon you two, you can make eyes at each other later! We're already late!"

Reade waves from in front of the elevators where he's currently holding the door open, gesturing dramatically. Kurt sighs, and rolls his eyes, and Jane just shakes her head ruefully as he pulls her forward, his hand still firmly wrapped around hers. _I'll ask him later_ , she thinks. For now he's laughing at Reade's stupid jokes, and he's smiling at her, and he's _happy_ —and that's all she really needs to know.

* * *

"So how many points did she rack up tonight?" Tash yells over the noise of the other bar patrons, waving at Jane from their table, Kurt and Reade following close behind her, and the low beat of music thrums in the background as they weave through the crowd. "Did you hit any old ladies? Better yet, did you hit on Reade to get out of a ticket?"

"Shut up, Tasha." Reade rolls his eyes, taking the empty seat beside her, and almost pushing her off her own in the process. Tash grabs the edge of the table with a good natured scowl, but she protests in earnest when Reade tries to swipe her margarita away from her to steal a drink.

"Get your own, loser, I don't recall having lost any bets this week, so if anyones buying drinks, you should be buying them for _me_. I share my tequila with no one." She says pointedly, jabbing Reade in the chest with her finger, but he swats her away easily.

"Where's Patterson?" Jane asks, searching the crowded bar for the blonde, but not spotting her. Kurt slides into the seat next to her, hooking his arm through her's as he flags down one of the passing waitresses to order their drinks.

"Bathroom, I think." Tash pauses mid draw on her drink, and her eyes light up suddenly, just remembering something. " _Or_ , or, she's chatting up that bartender who gave her his number a few weeks ago."

"Wait, what bartender?" Jane's eyes narrow instinctively, her fierce protectiveness of Patterson being no secret to anyone at the table.

"He's _British_." Tash emphasizes, as if that were the only explanation she needed. When Jane doesn't give a resounding "ohhh" of understanding, Tash shakes her head. There are some things in the world she'll never be able to explain to Jane Doe until she experiences them herself; attractive men with attractive accents wold be one of them.

"Reade, order up." Kurt gestures to the waiting server, before telling her to open a tab for them. "Two Guinness's, please, and whatever my buddy wants."

"Wow, thanks for being such a great friend, Kurt," Reade's over animated gratitude has Tash making faces beside him. "It's nice to feel appreciated, too bad _some people_ don't remember that, right Zapata? And I'll take a Stella," he adds, grinning at the amused waitress, "thanks."

Reade is pretty pleased with himself, until Tash elbows him in the side.

"Ow! What the hell Tash?!"

"Seriously, pretty boy? A _Stella_?" Tash snorts, finishing off the rest of her margarita like a kid slurping an Icee, eyebrows raised in incredulity.

Reade gives her a murderous glare, but ignores the bait, having become immune to her digs thanks to years of practice. His eyes all but rolling into the back of his head, he turns back to Kurt, crossing his arms as he leans against the tabletop. "So how're reviews going, boss? Any big news for us?"

"Like two extra weeks of paid vacation and a raise kind of big?" Tash interjects hopefully.

"Oh yeah, definitely," Kurt nods, sliding out of his suit jacket and working at the tie around his neck, "we'll all be making six figures next year, and Mayfair finally showed me the unicorn they keep in the basement."

Jane laughs at Kurt's attempt at a serious delivery, but he can't help but smile, and then he starts laughing too. She reaches up up and pulls his tie the rest of the way off, situating the red fabric around her own neck and fashioning it back in place there, much like she's tied it for him every morning this week; another of her random talents.

"Red looks good on you," Tash notes approvingly, "speaking of things that look good on you, we need to go shopping again soon. It's been too long."

Jane starts telling her no—no more endless hours in the mall, being forced to play dress up, wearing heels that were intended for escorts—when a stray hand appears in her periphery, grabbing her shoulder and making her jump. A head of blonde curls zooms into view shortly after, followed by Patterson's bubbly, tell-tale laugh as she zips her head in the space between Jane and Kurt. She's all smiles, and it never ceases to amaze Jane how the woman's smile could literally light up all of New York City if it needed to.

"Someone said shopping," Patterson grins, "when and where and what's the occasion?"

"If you need an occasion, I'll make reservations somewhere." Kurt gives Jane a sideways glance, grinning at her half-hearted scowl.

"Stop encouraging them!" Jane hisses.

"I've been forced to wear this damn suit all week," Kurt points out, "it's only fair, besides, I like it when you dress up."

"We're definitely going shopping then. It's settled." Patterson directs, one hand on Jane's shoulder, the other on Kurt's, giving them both a squeeze before flitting to the empty seat on Tash's other side.

Jane tries to ignore the fact that her friends are insufferable, and that her face is probably red, but if she were honest with herself she loved them dearly for it.

"How are the reviews going?" Jane asks in earnest, turning to Kurt as she changes the subject. The server reappears with their drinks, as well as their customary smorgasbord of onion rings and fried pickles that Tash and Patterson waste no time digging into.

Kurt's easy going after work demeanor seems to shift slightly at her question, and Jane is briefly reminded of the moment back in the office, where he'd almost told her something before Reade had called them to go. Kurt opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, and after a moment even Reade seems uncomfortable in the lingering silence. Tash and Patterson, heads bowed in deep conversation, likely about the British bartender, don't seem to notice the lull in conversation from their coworkers.

"Everything's ok, huh Weller?" Reade asks the question before Jane can, but she's glad he does, because she thinks Kurt's more likely to answer that way.

"Yeah, it's fine." Kurt finally shrugs, trying not to frown as he cradles the pint of beer between his hands. "Just the usual political bullshit, the chief of staff wants to make sure all his ducks are in a row, so naturally they grill us first. There's no rest for the wicked, or in our case national security."

"God bless the Bureau," Reade sighs, "here's to hoping we all still have our jobs at the end of the week."

"I'll drink to that." Kurt nods with dry humor, finally taking a long draw on his beer.

Jane sits quietly next to him, considering Reade's words with far more concern than she needed to, or perhaps not enough. Tash had explained that annual reviews were just another part of the FBI's hierarchy, much like her mandatory driving hours to receive a license from the state, or the psych evaluations they were forced to take for the agency. Performance reviews were just the natural way of things, and every year they were generally given high praise for a job well done, a slap on the wrist for any minor infractions, and no raise.

"We don't do this for the money." Kurt had said.

"No, we do it because we're certifiably insane." Tash had added, pointing at her badge.

No one had argued otherwise, and after some of the things Jane's witnessed during her time with the team and the endless trail of crimes thanks to her tattoos, amongst other things, she believes it too.

"You ok?" Kurt ducks his head down close and murmurs in her ear, noticing that she's fallen quiet, and he follows up his question with a quick kiss to the side of her head. Jane, despite the unease that's lingering in her bones the longer she thinks about what Kurt had said, can't help but grin at him. It's impossible when he looks at her like that, like she's the only person in the entire room.

"Never been better," she replies, grabbing his hand, and he nods, content with her answer—though not convinced—for the time being.

They turn back to Tash, who's started telling the story about how she and Kurt met in the middle of a drug bust in Brooklyn when she was still with the NYPD, and how she almost shot him in the ass when he was working undercover. There's dramatic hand gestures and lots of arguing, the four long time friends bickering amongst themselves the table as they try to remember the details of years past, and Jane watches them with a sense of satisfaction, happy to bask in the glow of their raucous laughter and belligerent shouts.

She wishes she could frame this moment, freeze it in time, because this team is her family, and she loves every single one of them more than they could ever imagine.

She thinks that this is what home must feel like, and she's glad she can finally say she has one.

* * *

By the time they make it home to the apartment, it's almost midnight. Jane is fully, but fitfully, exhausted as she walks arm and arm with Kurt down the sidewalk. The cool late November night reminds her of a different place and time, almost a year ago exactly if her memory is any more lucid now than it's been of her past life. Every time she walks down this street, past the low windows and the lamp posts, she remembers the night she met Kurt here in vivid detail.

That first kiss is permanently seared into her memory, and despite everything that happened and ensued following that fateful night, her abduction, the aftermath, she's still glad that she did it. She may regret her past, the choices she made that landed her in Time Square, the mistakes, but she'll never regret Kurt. He's been the one good thing—the only thing that's right in all that she's done.

"Whatcha thinking?" Kurt asks as he leads her through the apartment complex's front door, through the main lobby and towards the elevator.

"About you," she replies honestly, and he grins in response as they step into the elevator and the doors slide shut behind them.

"Oh really?" Kurt continues, and now that they're alone, he takes her hand and spins her around so that she's trapped between him and the elevator wall. "About anything in particular?" He hedges, his face hovering inches from hers, and any previous residual workplace chastity is long forgotten when Jane grabs at the lapels of his suit and pulls him closer. Kurt places a hand on either side of her head, leaning forward to capture her mouth in a kiss.

"Wouldn't you like to know." Jane murmurs against him, half teasing, half serious, and she can feel him smile back in response.

"Maybe you can show me," Kurt suggests, and he kisses her one more time, nipping at her bottom lip, his tongue begging for more access. His hands are dipping beneath her shirt, his knee between her legs, his mouth relentless, and just when she's about to give in to his insistence, the elevator arrives at their floor.

He breaks away just as the elevator draws to a stop, leaving her far from satisfied and breathless. She throws her head back against the wall with a frustrated sigh, which only makes him chuckle as he stuffs his hands in his pockets, pretending as if nothing's even happened. Jane curses internally at how easy it is for him to recompose himself in these moments, to appear outwardly unfazed by the fact that he could have taken her right then and there against the elevator wall and she wouldn't have even tried to stop him.

They reach their door and he's digging for the apartment key, Jane waiting as patiently as possible beside him, when his cellphone starts to ring.

Both of them stare at the glow of his screen from inside the pocket of his slacks, and they glance at each other uncertainty. Kurt, brow furrowed, sighs and fishes the iPhone out of his pocket, glancing down at the name. Jane leans closer, continuing the search for the keys by digging through Kurt's jacket pockets while he stands there.

"It's Mayfair," Kurt frowns, and Jane pauses, her hand in his other pant pocket now, having located the keys.

"Is everything ok?" She's not sure what's bothering him more, or her for that matter; the fact that Mayfair is calling, or that she's calling at such a late hour.

"Hope so," he says quietly, his previously bright and cheerful mood replaced with something more sullen and brooding. Jane unlocks the door at lets them in just as he answers the still blaring phone and lifts it to his ear.

"This is Weller."

Jane locks it back behind them as he moves through the threshold and into the living room. Mayfair must be talking on the other end of the line, because he's nodding along quietly in subservient agreement, accompanied by the occasional "yes ma'am" and "no ma'am." Jane watches him for just a moment before resigning herself to the fact that this phone call might last longer than either of them want it too, so when she finally manages to get Kurt's attention again, she hooks her thumb down the hall and mouths that she's going to get ready for bed. He nods, the look on his face pained, though whether it's because he'd rather be joining her, or because of whatever Mayfair is telling him over the phone, Jane can't be too sure.

He mouths back, "be there in a minute." However, Jane's learned that in the world of Special Agent Kurt Weller, the definition of a minute can vary slightly, so she's not counting on him joining her in the shower in the next sixty seconds or the next six hundred.

He follows her part of the way down the long hall, but he disappears into Sarah and Sawyer's old room, now a makeshift office, swinging the door partially closed behind him. Jane pauses in the door of their bedroom, watching his shadow pass beneath the gap of the door and the floor, and listening to the hum of his voice, though she can't decipher any exact words.

She has that sinking feeling in her chest. It's not the kind that scares her, like the night Mayfair called Patterson to tell her that David was gone, or when Carter had kidnapped her and tried to drown her memories out of her, but it makes her feel uneasy all the same.

There's something Kurt isn't telling her, and even though she knows that secrets are a part of their job, that she of all people should know better than to assume the worst, she can't help but wonder…

She watches his shadow pass across the door two more times before she gives up, and heads to the bathroom. He's still on the phone by the time she gets out, and even though the scalding shower had done some good to ease the tension in her shoulders, in her body, it's done little to ease her mind.

Jane decides to wait up for him, sitting in bed with the latest book Patterson bought her—she's amassed a small collection thanks to the scientist, and she enjoys the weight of a book in her hands, the feel of the paper as she turns the pages, an entire world in the palm of her hands and at her complete control.

She's no stranger to warding off sleep, to fighting it, but here, where she's most comfortable, it's become all too easy to succumb to. She watches the minutes on the clock go by, and her eyes only get heavier. It's not long until the world slowly fades in and out of focus, disappearing while the book— _Pride & Prejudice_—rests open in her lap.

* * *

It's late morning when Jane turns over to find the other side of the bed still empty.

She can't help the tugging concern that rises in the pit of her chest. With a sigh she reaches her hand out across the expanse of the mattress, letting her fingers trail across the sheets to the space where Kurt should be. The more she wakes up the more she notices signs of life; the pillows are disheveled, and the indention in the sheets still warm to the touch—they settle the temporary swell of anxiety that tends to accompany his absence.

She rolls back to her side of the bed, swinging her legs over the edge, her feet falling flat against the cool hardwood floor. That's when she notices the gentle hum of the radio drifting toward her from the kitchen, and the familiar smell of black coffee and bacon, all things she associates with lazy Saturday mornings and Kurt Weller.

Routine; in the past she's thought that settling into the habit of repetitive practices was a dangerous thing. Now, she thinks that she could get used to this kind of pattern. There's something light about it, freeing, and she's beginning to enjoy the feeling of normalcy that cohabitation provides her. She's accepted the fact that there are realms of possibility were happiness isn't something singular, she's determined that it isn't a solitary existence. Happiness is having something, or someone, to exist for.

Right now she exists simply for the joy of catching Kurt dancing in the kitchen in nothing but sweats while he makes pancakes.

"Good morning," she yawns, padding into the kitchen, her movements lazy and leisurely as she climbs onto the barstool in front of the sink.

Kurt turns from digging in the cabinets, mixing bowl in hand, and he beams at her.

"Morning," he moves around the kitchen with familiar ease, multitasking while he fries bacon and starts to mix the pancake batter, "didn't want to wake you up."

"Did _you_ sleep at all?" She asks, propping her chin on her hands, elbows against the bar top.

"Not as much as I wanted to," Kurt admits, and he pauses mid stride as he passes by, leaning over the sink to press a kiss to her forehead. Jane scrunches her face at him when the stubble of his beard tickles her nose, earning a chuckle from the cook for her facial expression.

"Was everything… ok?" Jane makes sure to ask her question with caution, but it's impossible not to appear slightly curious, and it's not in her nature to accept things at blind value. She knows Kurt can't be expected to tell her everything, but the way he continues to tiptoe around whatever it is that's been bothering him only exacerbates her need to find out the what and why. She doesn't like it when he keeps things from her, as hypocritical as that may be given their history.

"It is," Kurt grins, and though his answer begets sincerity, Jane's still not sure she buys it. "It will be," he adds when she continues to stare at him in silent question.

She doesn't like the second answer any more than she does the first. Jane's about to press the issue and use her interrogation skills to get more out of him, but to both their dismay the distant wail of a ringing cellphone disrupts the atmosphere.

"You're kidding right?" Kurt groans, his hands full, pancake batter mid pour from the mixing bowl. He's obviously irritated, as proven by the scowl he's wearing, but Jane can't help but find it endearing—he's much cuter when he's mad. "It's our first Saturday off in weeks and— dammit!" Kurt jumps, snatching his hand back from the burning stove with a hiss, " _shit,_ that hurt—Jane can you grab that? I think my phone's still in Sarah's room. I should have thrown it out the window last night like I wanted to."

When he looks up and catches her trying to choke back a laugh as she crawls off the stool, his scowl only intensifies, but instead of having the intended effect of silencing her, it only makes her laugh more.

"This is what I get for cooking breakfast?" Kurt waves his wooden spoon at her, but he's chuckling now too.

"I'd say I'm sorry," Jane calls over her shoulder as she heads down the hall to retrieve his phone, "but I'm not."

Jane slips into Sarah's old room, the office, the door creaking as she pushes it aside. She scans the row of boxes still stacked on one side, and the old desk and bookshelf on the far wall where books and papers and old folders have accumulated in the past months, yet to be organized. Jane pauses, looking at the old Weller family pictures still hanging on the wall, pictures Sarah had likely put up, left in place by the nostalgia Kurt refuses to admit he has. There's a picture of the creek behind the house in Clearfield, and one beside it of the old family cabin in Huntington that she and Kurt have spent their long weekends at. She wishes they could be there now.

"Jane, who is it?" Kurt calls form the kitchen, his voice echoing down the hall.

Jane blinks, stirred out of her reverie, and she moves to the desk to scoop his phone up. She frowns at the name of the missed call.

"It's Mayfair…" she's about to make a hairpin turn on her heels and head back to the kitchen when the discarded folders spread out across what little empty space the desk has left catches her eyes.

It's the name stamped on the papers at the top of the uppermost stack, right below the official FBI letterhead, that makes it impossible for her to look away.

 _Behavioral Analysis: Doe, Jane._

Jane can't stop herself.

Without thinking she sets the phone back on the desk, gathering the stack of papers in her hands, and slowly starts to scan the contents of them. There's a small voice in her head, distant, but there, warning her to reconsider. It might be wise to entertain the consequences, or at the very least consider that Kurt hadn't intended to leave it there for her to find. She should respect that she isn't supposed to see it, and yet…

She can't look away. She reads each paragraph, line by line.

 _Sometimes makes irrational, impulsive decisions that put other agents at risk._

 _Manipulative, has a history of defiance in the field._

 _Emotionally volatile._

 _Unpredictable._

"Jane?"

 _Dangerous_.

"Jane…"

Jane doesn't notice when Kurt walks in behind her, she doesn't hear him cross the room, or even feel his hand on her shoulder, because her eyes are glued to the pages in her hands. Pages that the chief of staff, that the FBI director and Assistant Director Mayfair, were likely given copies of while he stood in front of them everyday for the past week.

Pages that _he_ wrote.

"You weren't supposed to see any of that," Kurt's voice is in her ear, panicked, and suddenly his hand becomes a lead weight on her shoulder, and she drops the papers back to the desk as if they've burnt her, her eyes flying up to his as she spins out from under his touch.

"What the hell is this?" She gestures, her voice rising, her eyes livid, "Dangerous? Unpredictable? What the _fuck_ , Kurt?"

"It's not what you think," Kurt steps toward her, but for every move he makes in her direction she takes another step away, "please, if you'll just let me explain—"

"Explain what? That the FBI thinks I'm a psychopath? No, I think you made that _perfectly_ clear."

"You're not a psychopath Jane— _Christ_ , why would you think—" Kurt tries to calm her down, tries to talk her off the ledge he can see her spiraling towards, but she doesn't hear him. For the first time in a long time it's not working. For the first time in a long time she'd rather jump than have him save her.

Is this what the man from her memories had warned her about the night he died in her apartment? _You can't trust them,_ he'd said. She's been convinced all this time that he must have meant someone else, that he must have been wrong…

"Jane—Jane, where're you going? _Hey_!"

She pushes past Kurt, she blocks out his pleas to listen to him, to give him just one minute _._

He's had hundreds of thousands of minutes, why now? Why didn't he tell her before?

He trails behind her as she moves with deadly precision back to their bedroom, watching in disbelief as she grabs her jeans from the night before off the floor, pulling them on, snatching her backpack and her jacket off the table in the corner, all the while ignoring him, forcing him to become an observer to his worst nightmare come to life.

If he wants emotionally volatile, he's got it.

When she tears back through the apartment, past the kitchen and their now burnt breakfast, that's when he finally tries to grab her—he finally tries to stop her, reaching for her wrist and pulling her away from the door just as she reaches to open it through the distorted vision of fresh, hot tears and blinding rage. Usually she would have let him reel her back in, let him swallow her in his arms, a place she's always, _always_ felt safe, but this time she pushes him away.

This time she won't let him.

" _Don't_ touch me, Kurt."

Her voice sharper than any knife could ever be. His hand falls, stung by the acid left in the wake of her words, wounded by his own name.

" _Jane_."

Her name is the only thing he can say, the only thing he has left that might stop her, and usually it would. Usually that's all it takes to call her back to him, it's worked so many times before—so many times that it leaves her desperately wishing it would work _now_.

But it doesn't.

* * *

She goes to the subway.

She's not sure how she makes it to the station, her memory of the walk a blur of angry tears by the time she gets there, grabbing the 1 and 9, heading into the city and away from the mess she's left behind her.

She turns into a shadow in the back of the car, wiping the tear stains away on the back of her gloves, watching people come and go, stop after stop, trying in earnest to lose track of time and her sense of direction. She turns off her phone and shoves it into the bottom of her bag, ignoring the three missed calls and two voicemails she already has. She can't remember the last time she's ridden through the tunnels that wind their way beneath the city, a thought that both surprises and saddens her the more she thinks about it. The subway had been her first escape, a place to run to, and now she finds it ironic that it's serving that purpose again, though this time she's seeking sanctuary for entirely different reasons.

 _Dangerous_ , that's the word Kurt had used.

She might as well carve it into her skin with the rest of her tattoos.

It's not just Kurt though, it's the entire FBI that thinks she's someone, or something, to be afraid of. But Kurt Weller is the one who drafted those documents, he's the one who presented them to his superiors. He had to believe some part of what he'd written was true, because why else would he have done it, why put those words into physical existence if he didn't?

And that's what hurts the most, that's what twists the knife even deeper; the idea that after everything, after all this time, there's a part of him that still doesn't trust her.

The weight of the realization sits on her chest, forcing the air out of her lungs and the faith out of her heart. Reason is the furthest thing from her mind, but she tries look at the situation from a less livid perspective; she tries to give him an excuse, she tries to find an explanation she can accept. Given her history it isn't unfathomable that the agency would examine every last facet of her psyche, making sure they covered all there bases before granting her agent status. Too much has happened for them not to take every precaution, but somehow knowing that doesn't lessen the blow, it doesn't take away from the fact that even after all the good she's done, they still think she's a risk.

Her anger begins to fade in excruciating clarity. It's replaced with something far heavier, something far more painful; _doubt_.

She's never doubted Kurt before, he's never given her a reason to, but now…

She shoves the thought away, she focuses on breathing instead, because that's better than the alternative.

When the subway hits the Battery Park station she finally pulls herself up out of her seat, too restless to keep sitting, and still too mad to go home. She can walk through the park, clear her head in the fall sunshine and crisp, cool air, then catch the ferry and go out on the water. Maybe by the time she rides to Staten Island and back, she'll be able to look at her phone without wanting to chunk in into the harbor. And maybe by the time she rides all the way home, facing Kurt won't be so hard to do.

She enjoys the anonymity of being alone, especially right now. Here in New York City she's just another face in millions, just another stranger wandering through through the streets. Blending in becomes a game, one she's always been good at, and so she floats through Battery Park on her way to the South Ferry Station like a ghost. She walks past the memorials and the construction and the people with their families and friends—she's invisible, a shadow. They're unsuspecting, unaware of the seemingly harmless woman with the bird tattoo on her neck.

 _Just how dangerous are you, Jane? Just how volatile and unpredictable?_

She tries to push the thoughts form her mind, away to the furthest, farthest reaches, where she can't entertain their meanings. Yet it's all too easy to consider the possibilities, try as she might to console herself. It would be naive to say she's harmless, this she knows. Despite the majority of her past remaining a glaring blindspot, there have been too many instances that her instincts in the field have bordered on the side of viciously reactive, indicating a history of violence if nothing else.

Jane runs through the list of damning encounters and altercations in her head. They bleed and blend together, and she is the only thing that remains the same. She's pulled the trigger of a gun and killed a man without flinching, she's used her fists to pummel people into the ground, she's come out of bloody knife fights without so much as a scratch, and the tattoos covering every inch of her skin are prophecies that have led people to their deaths.

Maybe they were right to be scared of her.

Her body is a weapon, no amount of goodness or redemption or second chances can change that.

* * *

It's colder out on the water, and she's not dressed for it; add almost always ill prepared for the weather to the list of grievances against her.

Jane huddles in her bench seat at the back of the ferry, away from the majority of the other passengers. She could go sit inside where it's warm, but she likes to watch the water, so she pulls her leather jacket closer and toughs it out instead. The waves roll past in a rolling, methodical lull as the Ferry pushes away from the pier and heads out into the harbor. With a sigh Jane crosses her arms and leans back in her seat, ignoring the urge to dig through the bag beside her and pull out her phone.

She refuses to give the universe the satisfaction of fulfilling the needs of her guilty conscience. Let Kurt wonder and worry, it serves him right—at least that's what she tells herself.

"Are you always in the habit of turning your phone off?" a voice questions from beside her.

Jane jumps, wheeling in her seat, because she'd know that voice anywhere, and she can't believe—

"Director Mayfair?"

Jane stares in shock at the woman standing just a few feet away. Jane almost doesn't recognize the FBI's assistant director. Bethany Mayfair, queen of black and three piece suits, dons a bright orange overcoat and bluejeans, complete with her knit scarf and cap. She closes the gap and takes a seat beside Jane, who eyes her with blatant, uncensored suspicion.

"Don't act so surprised." Mayfair shakes her head, lips pursed and arms crossed as she settles herself on the bench.

"How'd you find me?" Jane's question is more a demand than anything else, her tone far from friendly and far more accusing. "Are you _following_ me?"

"I can find anyone I want to, Jane. I haven't always been stuck behind a desk delegating," Mayfair reminds her tersely, "and I can't imagine why you'd think I was following you. Obviously I just felt like spending my day off sitting on an uncomfortable ferry bench in the freezing cold."

Jane fails to find the humor in Mayfair's dripping sarcasm, her brows knit together pensively and her lips pressed in a thin line of contempt. She buries her hands under her arms, partly because she's cold, mostly because she doesn't want Mayfair to see her clinched fists.

"If Kurt put you up to this—"

"Kurt _called_ me, worried, because it's been hours since he's heard from you," Mayfair cuts her off, her voice clipped, admonishing, "he didn't put me up to anything, because—much like someone else I know—he's too stubborn and hard headed to actually ask for help. I'm pretty sure the man searched half of New York before he could force himself to pick up the phone."

"Could've fooled me, with as many late phone calls he's taken from you this week," Jane replies darkly.

"So many assume. So little _know_." Mayfair shakes her head, eyes mirthful, and it only makes the ugly head of anger rise in Jane's chest and gnash it's teeth in response. "Did you ever give Kurt a chance to explain himself?" Mayfair turns in her seat, eyebrows raised, "or were you so mad that you ran out the door before he could?"

"With all due respect, Director," Jane says sharply, "I don't feel like I owe you, or anyone else, any kind of explanation."

"Fair enough," Mayfair shrugs, watching Jane much like a mother would their insolent child, "but I'm assuming you'd like one—an explanation."

"Little late for that, don't you think?" Jane casts a baleful sideways glance at Mayfair.

"You tell me, Jane."

Jane doesn't have an answer for her. Her eyes are withering, and they lose their fire, no longer guarded but exhausted, the fight bled out of her. She looks back out at the water, the wind catching the dark tendrils of her hair and snaring them around her neck and across her face. She closes them for just a second, taking a deep breath, wishing for just one moment of clarity so that she can steady herself.

She can't find it though, because even as she tries to shut the rest of the world out, _he's_ still there. He's become just as much a part of her as the tattoo on her back, his name a divination engraved across her shoulder blades, both a deliverance and a damnation.

" _Why_?" Jane finally asks, opening her eyes, staring blankly out past the railing, out past the water to something invisible in the distance.

 _Why did he do it? Why did he lie? Why why why?_

"I think you already know this, Jane, but sometimes to keep the people you love safe, you have to do things that hurt them."

"I missed the part where lying to me about potentially damning official documents about my mental state, that may or may not have me removed from the FBI entirely, constitute as keeping me _safe_?"

"That's because you don't know the whole story," Mayfair eyes her ruefully, "we couldn't tell you Jane, because we needed things to be as authentic as possible in order for the chess pieces to fall where we wanted. and they did."

"As authentic as possible?"Jane repeats, shaking her head, contempt clouding her comprehension.

"You haven't seen it, because you're not behind the desk like I am, but the Director of the FBI has been watching you, Jane." Mayfair taps her index finger on the bench between them, "he's been following your every move since you showed up, and he knows what your capable of—as do a lot of other people. People just like Carter, who would use you and ask questions later."

"But I still don't understand why—"

"Why Kurt did what he did?" Mayfair till her head, arms crossed. "Those pages, the ones you saw? They were a necessary evil, Jane. He was under direct orders from _me_. Every sentence, every last word, it was because I told him to do it, because if he hadn't—if the Director had any reason to believe he could take you and use you somewhere else—we would have lost our control over you Jane. You could have been placed somewhere none of us could follow, or worse thrown down a hole into solitary somewhere we'd never find you."

This entire thing had been a ploy, a game against the tangled and tainted hierarchy of a government that would like nothing more than to use her as a puppet. Jane reals at the revelation, and it makes her dizzy, sick to her stomach, to think that after all this time there were still people who saw her as nothing more than a tool to be utilized, a resource.

"And making me look certifiably insane on paper keeps me out of a jail cell?" Jane asks dubiously, but despite the defensiveness of her question, there's also the disbelief that's echoed in the edges of her voice as the realization of what Mayfair's said begins to sink in.

"Making you _appear_ unfit on paper for assignments within the FBI or other sister agencies due to your _impulsive_ tendencies, plus your involvement in every case we've solved so far thanks to your tattoos, keeps you right here—with us." Mayfair corrects. "So I had Kurt write the behavioral analysis report, with Borden's backing, for a very specific purpose."

"So it wasn't real?" Jane asks soundlessly.

"Well, yes, but did Kurt really write those things and believe them? No, I don't think so."

She can feel the blood drain from her face, overcome with immediate and immeasurable shame that it had taken her until now to come to a conclusion that should have been so obvious—that would have been, if she had let Kurt tell her.

"I thought—I thought that…" Jane shakes her head, she sucks in a breath, feeling like she's been knocked in the chest. _How could you be so stupid?_

"That we didn't trust you?" Mayfair nods, "if it were me, I would have drawn the same conclusion, but no, Jane. We do trust you, implicitly so, so much so that I was ready to do what it took to keep you here, and so was Kurt."

"I walked out on him," Jane breathes out, "I didn't even give him a chance to try and explain…" Jane can't finish the sentence, all she can see is the way his face had looked when she left that morning, all she can hear the raised voices and angry words, everything just as fresh in her mind now as it had been earlier that morning. "What do I do?" Jane asks the air, looking up, blinking back tears—angry again, but this time at herself. " _Oh my god_."

"Kurt once told me that we're more than just one mistake," Mayfair replies quietly, reaching out to set her hand over Jane's, "in my experience, forgiveness is usually a good place to start."

* * *

Mayfair drives her home once they get off the ferry.

Jane sits outside the apartment, in the very same place she sat the night she first kissed Kurt, for what feels like an eternity. Every time she thinks she's ready to go upstairs, she manages to talk herself back out of it again. She's even picked up her phone, listened to Kurt's voicemails begging her to call him, and it just drives the knife deeper into her chest.

She goes over what she'll say to him in her head a million times, and she changes the lines a million more, but no matter how hard she tries none of the apologies she comes up with feel adequate. She sits there so long that the sun is almost set, and the lamp lights have already turned on, the temperature dropping.

She rests her head against her arms, her back against the cool brick wall, her knees pulled to her chest. She entertains spending the night right where she sits, but then thinks better of it, lest she get kidnapped again, or freeze to death in her sleep.

"Jane?"

She lifts her head up at the all too familiar sound of her name, and the all too familiar voice.

Kurt walks toward her down the sidewalk, and the closer he gets the brighter his blue eyes seem to be, his expression nothing short of relieved as she draws to an uncertain stop just a step away from her. Jane notices the brown paper bag in his hand, and she can't help but recall the night of their first kiss again, reveling in the irony the parallels laid out before her. Though judging from the length of the bag and the distinctive shape of the neck of whatever his hand is currently wrapped around, she's pretty sure he's not carrying groceries.

"You've been drinking?" Jane asks, shouldering her backpack and slowly getting up from the ground, taking Kurt's hand when he holds it out to help her.

"I was thinking about it," Kurt looks from her, to the bag, and then back again. There's a rueful gleam in his eyes, but it's also sad, and tired. She imagines she looks much the same. "I picked up your favorite," he adds, holding out the bag.

"Don't we already have some?" Jane asks, peering at the bottle of bourbon skeptically, glancing up at Kurt.

"We did," Kurt shrugs, "I might've broke it though."

"Doing _what_?"

"Walls and glass bottles are terrible ideas, although oddly enough I'm not usually the one doing the throwing. I've had a full bottle of Lagavulin aimed at my head once…" Kurt looks at Jane's shocked face, and he chuckles, shrugging unapologetically. "I wasn't always so meek and mild mannered before you came around, Jane."

"I'd hardly call you meek or mild." Jane shakes her head, and she shivers against the cold, which Kurt notices instantaneously.

"Are you trying to get sick?" Kurt admonishes softly, frowning, and he tentatively holds out his free hand, nodding back toward the apartment. "Let's go inside, we can get you warmed up, and then if you want we can talk."

"I'd like that." Jane takes his hand, wrapping her fingers through the spaces in his, wondering at how they always seem to be a perfect fit. "But honestly, Kurt, an entire bottle or bourbon? Really?"

As they walk to the door Kurt can't help but laugh, and for the first time since that morning he smiles at her, and even though she knows there are still a million things that need to be said, for a moment all is right in the world.

* * *

"So Mayfair talked to you?" Kurt asks once they're back inside the apartment.

"She did," Jane nods, locking the door behind them and hanging her jacket up in the hall. He moves into the kitchen and turns the one light over the sink on, leaving the rest of the apartment dark.

She follows him, resting her hip against the countertop while she watches him dig through the cabinet for two glasses.

"You should have told me," Jane says finally, quietly, watching him pour them both a drink, the amber liquid warm in the soft light around them. She can't help but think they might need more than one. "If you'd just told me from the beginning, I wouldn't have been so…"

"Pissed off?" Kurt suggests, handing her a drink, sidling up beside her as they lean against the counter together.

"Upset." Jane compromises, taking the glass, her arm brushing his.

"I tried to tell you," Kurt replies solemnly, sipping at his drink.

"I know." Jane cringes, bringing hers to her lips, but she stops just short. "I'm sorry, Kurt."

"So am I."

They watch each other through seconds of silence that feel so much longer. Kurt takes another long draw on his glass, before setting it down beside him and running a hand over his face. Jane rests her drink on her thigh, her free hand involuntarily reaching up so that her fingers are cupped against the curve of his neck, her thumb caressing the edge of his stubbled jaw. He sighs, leaning into her touch, closing his eyes. It's almost as if he's afraid this is a dream, that he might wake up and find her gone again.

"Kurt?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you do something for me?" This time Jane puts her drink down too, turning to face him fully, bringing her other hand up to frame his face so that he's forced to look at her.

"Tell me what you need me to do," Kurt replies, "and I'll do it."

"Tell me that you trust me," Jane's fingers drift to ether side of his neck, to the pulse lying just beneath the skin. "I need you to tell me that you trust me Kurt, because you're the only thing that matters—you're the only one who's ever mattered, and if you don't trust me—"

Her voice catches and breaks. She can't bring herself to say the rest, she can't force herself to breath her worst fears into life.

"Oh, Jane."

When he says her name it's like a call to sanctuary, a prayer she didn't know she needed, and before she can do anything else, before she can say anything else, Kurt's lips are on hers.

She's too shocked to question it, to protest, and she doesn't want to. His mouth is soft against hers, but still hungry, still insistent, and she gives into his touch out of habit like she's done so many times before. He lifts her up onto the counter, almost knocking their glasses to the floor.

When he deepens the kiss, tangling his hands into the back of her her, Jane can't help the small moan that leaves her. Her hands reflexively find their way to his neck, into the short hair at the back of it where her fingers curl, and she tries to steady herself against him. He's settled between her thighs, his hands at her hips, and he pulls her closer and growls against her mouth when she worries his bottom lip with her teeth, running her nails along the sensitive skin just beneath the collar of his shirt. She can feel him quiver under her touch, and she can't help but laugh internally to think that just this morning they'd been ready to murder one another.

Kurt pulls away, but not far, his mouth mere inches from hers as they both try to catch their breath, her face flushed, her lips red and eyes wide. His peers down at her, his fingers curling insistently into the soft flesh of her hips just beneath the edge of her shirt, his blue eyes dark, hungry, unyielding and urgent.

"Did you really think I didn't trust you, that I ever doubted you?" He asks in a whisper, leaning forward and kissing her once, twice, and it's almost painful the way his lips linger on hers, the sweet desperation she can taste mixed with the bourbon that still lingers on his tongue. "I've _always_ trusted you Jane, always will. Nothing's ever going to change that."

"No," she shakes her head, "but _are_ you sure?"

"I've never been more sure," he replies, and with his assurance he breathes out his conviction, his certainty, and pours it back into her, "I love you Jane, and if I ever made you doubt that, if I ever made you think anything less, I'm sorry. _I'm so sorry_."

She isn't expecting it, the profession or the sincerity of his apology, and it surprises her, catches her off guard and steals her breath away. In that moment she's flooded with regret, with remorse, because she can feel his despair, his anguish, she can see how it breaks him to stand here and beg her for mercy, for redemption. She hates herself for it, because who is she to do this to him, after everything he's been through? Who is she to make him suffer more?

 _Why does he love her still, after all of it?_

It just confirms what she's known all along, that Kurt Weller is more than she could ever possibly deserve in any lifetime.

"I love you, Kurt."

Kurt blinks, taken aback, surprised, and a slow, full smile starts to tug at his lips as her words sink in.

"Say it again," he closes his eyes in disbelief, giddy like a child.

" _I love you._ "

Kurt's smile widens, beaming, and that's all it takes to wash away all the anger and the resentment of the last twenty-four hours. His happiness gives her more satisfaction than anything else ever could, and she's almost certain that all the worlds ailments could be cured by this man's smile, because it's made up of everything pure and perfect and _good_. He is good, and he is so good for her.

"I love you." Jane says it again, and she realizes she's prepared to say those three words for the rest of her life if that's what it takes for him to forgive her. She locks her hands behind his neck, curling her legs around him, crossing her ankles at his back and digging her heels in to pull him closer. She rests her forehead against his, and whispers quietly as her mouth hovers over his. "Do you know what else I'd love, right now?"

"Tell me."

"For you to take me to bed."

Kurt doesn't move immediately. Instead he freezes under her touch, and his eyes fly open to look at her intently. When he realizes that she's serious, he almost draws back, fighting with himself, as if he's trying to decide whether or not this is a good idea. It probably isn't, Jane thinks, but right now she doesn't care, and she's never been in the habit of deny herself the things she wants—and she wants _him_.

When Kurt pulls away from her she isn't prepared for it, and before Jane can protest, he scoops her up in his arms and spins them around in the small space of the kitchen. Jane clings to his neck, the fleeting look of terror on her face accompanied by a cry of surprise. Kurt laughs again, and the sound echoes as he carries her down the hall. He's still chuckling moments later when he drops her unceremoniously on their bed, crawling over the top of her and silencing her protests with a far more fierce kiss than the first, and it all but steals the breath from her lungs in the process.

This kiss escalates quickly, and Jane can feel Kurt letting go, piece by piece, until the carefully constructed walls of his self-restraint have all but disappeared.

She could spend a lifetime like this, letting him kiss her senseless, and she'd be perfectly and entirely happy.

It still doesn't seem real at times, that he's here, that he's hers, especially now. Hadn't she been sure it was over? Hadn't they just been yelling at each other this morning? Yet here Kurt is, hovering over her, hands on either side of her head, so overwhelmingly real she almost can't stand it.

Kurt sits back on his heels, pulling her up with him. He lets go of her only to lean back, allowing her fingers to deftly work through the buttons of his shirt, and then his jeans. He hooks his own hands beneath the thin material of her t-shirt and lifts it over her head, letting his fingers linger as they trail up he ribcage. The pile of discarded clothes at the foot of the bed grows, and Kurt stands up, leaning against the edge of the bed, towering over her with a wolfish grin that puts his boyish one to shame. His own pants barely cling to his hips as he reaches forward and slides hers off, pulling her down the bed in the process, adding the rest of their clothing to the collection on the floor.

In these moments, with nowhere to hide, completely naked and exposed, Jane often wonders how different things might be if it weren't for the tattoos that covered her body.

How different would things be if his name wasn't engraved into her skin?

She doesn't want to know, not really. She's glad it's there. She's glad that there's no question she is his.

Jane leans back against the bed, her arms stretched out above her, and she watches with silent satisfaction the way his eyes travel down her naked body, from her face, over the slope of her breasts, and lower… He drinks her in, as if he's attempting to commit her image to memory, and she revels in the power it gives her, knowing that in these moments he's rendered completely helpless because of her. She does the same, allowing her eyes to rove appreciatively from shoulder to shoulder, down his chest to the tight plain of his stomach, and further south, until the own pang of desire in the pit of her stomach all but overwhelms her.

"Come here." She murmurs.

Kurt obliges, powerless to deny her.

He crawls back up the bed, gently parting her knees and settling himself in the familiar place between her thighs. He leans forward to kiss her, his teeth grazing her lips, his tongue tracing the edge of them, teasing. His lips travel across each collar bone, and then along each swell of her breast following the path of the serpent and staggered lines that decorate them. Kurt ministers the length of her sternum next, then the flat of her stomach and the flaming rose that rests there. All the while Jane struggles to remain still, his touch leaving a trail of fire in his wake. As he moves lower her fingers thread through his hair, while his draw patterns along the inside of her thighs. They follow the trail of his mouth, tracing the lines of the images etched across her skin, but they don't get close enough to where she _needs_ them to be—staying torturously just out of reach.

When Kurt continues to tease her, worshipping his way slowly back up her body, Jane reaches between them and grabs the length of him, and he bucks into her touch, growling as he pulls himself back up and claims her mouth again in retaliation. His fingers move with practiced precision between her legs, into her warm center, curling up into the sensitive flesh as he strokes it, while his thumb worries her clit with vindictive accuracy. Jane arches into him, and she can't help the cry that escapes her, smothered by the unrelenting attention of his mouth, her nails digging into his shoulders, because it's too much— _he is too much_.

" _Kurt_." His name is a plea she breathes into him. Jane can barely bring herself to say it, let alone ask him to stop what he's doing, but if she doesn't she'll fall apart here and now. That's not what she wants, not tonight. When she grabs at his arm, staying his efforts, he looks down at her, suddenly concerned, but she shakes her head to reassure him, still trying to catch her breath. "Not like this," she breathes, "I want _you_."

Kurt is always so careful, so calculated, so attentive to her during their love making. While that remains the same, there's something different about the way he looks at her tonight. There's a gravity to him, a weight that surpasses simple need, and she can feel it in each kiss, in each touch. It's a desperation that comes from the kind of longing in which you lose yourself entirely, beyond the hunger of the heart, beyond the earthly limitations of physical desire, and she wants all of it— _all of him_.

Kurt's hand pulls away and Jane pulls herself up, mourning the empty feeling that the loss of his touch leaves her with, as temporary as it is. She deftly adapts their positions so that she's on top instead, and she crawls into his lap, kneeling above him, her hands reaching for him again to stroke the length of his cock. He gives her one last look of question, and she nods. He reaches across the bed for the nightstand, for the drawer, for the condom he hands her next, and there's nothing more satisfying then the finality of sinking down onto him coupled with the way he moans her name as he digs his fingers into her hips.

" _Fuck me_." Kurt breathes out, his grip tightening, and Jane rocks her hips once, twice, settling into a steady back and forth, her hands splayed against his chest for support.

"I am." Jane laughs breathlessly, coyly, eyes bright, and she slows her movements, getting entirely too much enjoyment from the way he groans and shifts underneath her torturous adjustment to the pace.

Kurt, amused, but not to be outdone, thrusts up harder in response, and she sucks in a breath, biting back the cry that ebbs in her throat. She settles back into a steady cadence, but she can already feel the pressure building, the insatiable burn that grows as their tempo increases. Kurt lets her control the pace, his hands at the owl and the woven colonial rings on either hip, dipping lower to the back of her thighs, encouraging her closer. Their rhythm shifts and changes from steady and sure to frantic and urgent, and her name becomes nothing more than a continuous prayer as it leaves his mouth, and his an echo as she answers him.

It's here, right at the edge of release, that she always selfishly wishes she could have him like this for more than a lifetime would ever allow.

Her body finally breaks and falls apart around him, and she can't help the soft cry, the gasp that robs the air form her lungs as she clutches at his shoulders, closing her eyes against the violent high as it floods her senses. She continues to move against Kurt until he finds his own release, and he does, following closely behind her. He isn't finished with her though, and he sits up, still inside her, his lips laying claim to the bird in flight along her neck. His hand moves between them, and even though she's already come Jane can't help the instinctive, involuntary arc of her body, the final remnants of her own orgasm drawn out by the soft stroke of his fingers until she's completely and utterly spent.

They finally fall still, both of them breathless, her arms around his neck and her head dropping to his shoulder, his hands tangled in the ends of her dark hair. Kurt cradles her against the cage of his hips and legs, pulling her flush against him, but even now she's convinced, with no space between them, that she could never have him close enough.

Kurt brushes her hair back from her eyes, places his lips against the side of her head, breathing her in, and she sighs against him, the full weight of her body steadied by his. He leans them backwards, falling against the pillows, still inside her as she lays on top him. His lungs are desperate for air, and he can see the way her own ribcage rises and falls, her head moving to rest against his chest, his hand resting at the small of her back over the double headed eagle along her spine. They lay there like that, quiet and exhausted, content—for the moment—to linger in the glow of the silence.

Jane's bones finally become light enough that she can lift them, that she can feel enough to move, and after a few more blissful minutes she slides herself to the side. When she burrows into him, Kurt turns to her, curls around her, his arms tangling their way around her waist and his legs hooking through hers, drawing her to him so that they're face to face.

Kurt is the first one to break the silence, whispering against the side of her head.

"I love you," he murmurs, and Jane tilts her head back to look up at him, to meet his eyes.

"I love _you_ ," she reaches up, resting her hand against his cheek.

He's quiet for just a moment, and Jane waits, watching him try to sift and work through the emotions, the words, and it just makes her love him that much more—that he tries so very hard for her.

"I never meant for you to feel like I was hiding something from you," he says finally, tucking the stray, wild strands of black hair back behind her ear, letting his hand cup the back of her neck, his fingers finding the scar there. "I'm sorry Jane, I hope you know that."

"I'm sorry too," Jane blinks her eyes open, shifting in his arms to face him fully, her fingers caressing the line of his jaw, letting them linger. "I know you were just trying to keep me safe, but you can't always protect me from everything."

"But I'll try," Kurt adds quietly, sincerely, placing a chaste kiss to her forehead. "I'll always try."

"I know," Jane is fascinated by him, in awe of him. She's not sure she'll ever understand the depth of his devotion, his unfailing heart, and she wonders if she'll ever be capable of the same selflessness, the same sacrifice.

"Forgive me, Jane?"

She decides, for him, she will can try.

"Forgiven."

Kurt tightens his grip on her, burying his face against the side of her neck, pressing his lips against the curve of her shoulder, and Jane settles herself against him, happy to lay there for as long as he would allow her, content to listen to the sound of his heart echoing in his chest.

* * *

"Jane, wake up, I wanna show you something."

Jane blinks her eyes open against the soft morning light, and she resists the urge to groan as she rolls over in bed, her muscles aching in protest. Kurt is sitting in bed beside her, blue eyes bright, excited as he peers down at her with a grin. He can't help himself, and he surprises her when bends over to kiss her, softly and slowly, letting it linger longer than necessary. Jane sighs when he breaks away, still grinning, and she eyes him in playful, but wary consideration.

"Show me something, hm?" She shifts closer to him, still splayed out across the bed, the sheets falling off the edge.

"I had it all planned out," Kurt explains, "It's two things actually. I was going to surprise you, but then everything happened…"

"Two things?" She asks, propping herself up on one elbow, her head tilted, green eyes uncertain.

"The first thing?" Kurt's grin widens, and the light from it reaches his eyes, "you're done driving. You completed enough hours, all we have to do is go get you a proper license."

"You mean no more rendezvous with you and our favorite cop?" Jane laments jokingly, though secretly she's elated, excited even. "I'll miss hitting on you to get out of a ticket, won't you?"

"You can hit on me anytime you want," Kurt replies with straight faced diplomacy, "just preferably not while engaging in illegal activities."

"Rules are meant to be broken, aren't they?" Jane laughs, pulling the sheet back onto the bed, her question eliciting a half hearted slowly from Kurt. She sits up across from him, both of them cross-legged as they face each other, knees brushing. "The second thing?"

"The second thing," Kurt murmurs, reaching behind him to the bedside table, and reappearing with an envelope in his hands, "is this."

He holds it out to Jane, and she takes it cautiously, her eyes immediately drawn to the official seal along the envelopes edge, the one that belongs to the FBI. Her heart catches in her chest, and her mouth opens, forming a silent, "oh."

"Well go on," Kurt grabs her knee, squeezing it, "open it up."

Jane glances at him, and then slowly, methodically, she flips the envelope over and begins to peel it open with careful precision, as if she's afraid to harm the contents within. When she finally extracts the papers from inside, she sets them on the bed between them, carefully unfolding the letter and studying it. She reads it once, twice, each time with more disbelief than the last, her eyes wide as she soaks it in.

"So," Kurt grins madly and grabs her hands, kissing her knuckles, "what do you think, _Special Agent Doe_?"

Jane is quiet, deathly quiet, and Kurt's face almost falls for a fraction of a second, automatically assuming the worst until her laugh—bright and loud and impossibly happy—erupts between them. Jane leans forward, pulling her hands away from him only to reach up and grab his face, kissing him squarely and fully, bubbling with barely contained excitement as she picks up the letter one more time, her eyes roaming over it in gleeful disbelief.

"I'm officially an agent?" She shakes her head in astonishment, and she narrows her eyes at Kurt in mock accusation as she sets the letter down. "All those things you told them didn't blacklist me for life?"

"No, no blacklisting. You might just be stuck with me for the rest of your days, though," Kurt grabs her wrists, pushing her back onto the bed, penning them up above her head as he kneels across her, "think you can live with that, special agent?"

"I think I can," Jane grins, angling her head up just enough so that she can kiss him, "with one exception."

"Mm, what's that?"

"I get to do all the driving."

* * *

 _ **AN:** Anddddd fin. If you made it all the way to the end, you get 100 gold stars and a trophy. Thank you for taking the time to read it! xo_


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